Tied Up Smiling
by stikky-sweet
Summary: *formerly So I Put You To Sleep* When you took my lips, I took your breath. Sometimes love's better off dead.
1. Compliance

**A/N: Originally, I wasn't going to write this because I didn't know how well it would be received, but now I figure I'll give it a shot. :/ It is a Mac/OC story, but if you're looking for a Mary Sue, you are absolutely in the wrong place. I appreciate reviews and constructive criticism, and thank you in advance for reading.**

**Warnings: This story will contain copious amounts of violence, language, and sex, all to the extreme. If you've seen the movie and enjoyed it, you'll have no problem then, lol.**

**Timeline: Takes place before the movie.**

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**STAGE ONE - COMPLIANCE  
**_A change in behavior consistent with a communication source's direct requests._

Road trip.

It hadn't been her idea, but then again, nothing ever was her idea. Because if she had ideas, he'd punch the shit out of her until he was certain he'd knocked the ideas out of her, too. So she went along because she had no choice. No, that wasn't true—she had a choice, and her choice was to live. God only knows what might have happened if she'd refused a road trip that would take them from Wyoming through the badlands near Red Canyon, Utah, and on to Las Vegas, Nevada.

Las Vegas. What a fucking joke. She knew what would happen once they got there; he'd lose his ass at the poker tables, come back to the room and beat the hell out of her like it was her fault, and then he'd ask her to loan him some money, which she would do just to get him out of her face for a little while longer. Once he'd spent all of their money and painted her in blue, black, and green, he'd have his father wire him the gas money to get them back home. _Like father, like son_. She was pretty sure his dad beat his mom, too.

Being in a car alone with Johnny really wasn't so bad. He preferred listening to Shooter Jennings and Willie Nelson at maximum volume to squash any conversation he thought she might have been interested in having. Yeah, right. She had nothing to say to him. She'd have rather listened to shitty music than hear Johnny's voice. Gazing out the window, watching all the nothingness go by, she imagined a better life. One without Johnny. A life where she could wake up every morning and not worry about being hammered in the face for not having done the dishes the night before, where she could look at the man she lived with and not want to slit his throat.

But that was asking too much, she knew that. Her Catholic friend had told her to pray to God for the answers and the strength to make the right decision. Except that wouldn't work, she told her friend. _God is dead and he doesn't care._ Besides, she wasn't really sure which answer she was looking for, which outcome. Did she want the strength to leave him or the strength to do something about him? If she got away, he would just find another woman to treat the same way, and she would rather stick it out with Johnny for the rest of her life—however long he decided he wanted to _let_ her live—than allow him to sink his claws into some other female, beat her, make her feel like she was less than him, make her _believe_ it. But if she took matters into her own hands, maybe she could stop it from every angle: stop him from hurting and ruling her, stop him from doing it to someone else. The only way to do that, though …

"Gotta stop," his voice broke into her morbid thoughts. She glanced sideways at him, propping her foot up on the dashboard. "I need to take a leak."

He pulled the car over, the tires on the right side kicking up dirt and dust as they came to a hard stop. She said nothing as he got out, slamming the door harder than was necessary, and he jogged around the car to piss into the desert. She glanced at the keys dangling from the ignition, eyes falling to the pedals in the floorboard, then the gear shift. It would be so easy to climb into the driver's seat and speed off, coating Johnny in Red Canyon filth, laughing the whole way. Laughing until he caught up with her and his stolen vehicle and made her pay for it, probably with her life. So she thought of another scenario—what if she climbed into the driver's seat and sped away, only this time turning the wheel hard right and mowing Johnny down. He'd bust the grill and break the windshield, and she could see his blood raining down the shattered glass, see his dead eyes looking into her own. This was her drug. Imagining Johnny in so many horrifying situations, all of which resulted in his death by her hand, was the only thing really keeping her going anymore. She held onto the hope that one day she'd find the courage to take a Louisville Slugger to his fucking brain.

Once they were on the road again, she lit a cigarette and rolled her window down. After one long drag, Johnny reached across the car and slapped her mouth, knocking the cigarette from her lips and into her lap where it burned the bare skin on her legs. In spite of the fact that her flesh was burning, she knew not to scream or cry or complain. Instead, she fished the cigarette out from underneath her thigh and tossed it out the window. After, of course, visualizing herself sticking the cherry end of the cigarette into Johnny's eye.

"I told you to quit," he grumbled.

He hadn't. She would have remembered if he had, subsequently not quitting but not smoking around him, either. Fighting back tears of weakness and pain, she rubbed at the burn marks on her thighs in a failing attempt at quelling the agony caused by a much-needed cigarette. She wouldn't cry because she never cried. She wouldn't give Johnny the satisfaction of seeing her breakdown and she wouldn't allow herself to feel fragile at the hands of a man. It was all pointless to her. Ineffective.

"I haven't heard you apologize yet," Johnny pointed out.

She hated this part almost more than the abuse; apologizing for something that wasn't her fault, saying she was sorry for being nothing less than human. It was degrading, much like every other aspect of her life at the moment, but she would just as soon get it over with—return Johnny's _man card_ back to him so they could be on their way without her having to stress over his next outburst.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, looking him directly in the eye when he glanced at her to get the full effect of her apology. "Will you please forgive me, Johnny?"

"Of course," he answered almost too quickly, but that was his game. He liked to make her grovel and cause her fear over the thought that he might not forgive her. "Just don't do it again. I see another cigarette—" he looked at her "—and I'll light you on fire with it."

She wouldn't put that past him, either. He'd taken everything to her but the kitchen sink and a lighter. She'd been on the receiving end of an iron, a skillet, fists, of course, and even fists wearing brass knuckles. Johnny pulled out all the stops when it came to making himself feel more like a man. And why not? What was the point of holding back knowing the person you were beating to a pulp wasn't going to fight back? If she ever got the chance to return the favor—a dark smirk split her lips—she wouldn't restrain herself; she would torture him, she decided, and make it last for as long as she could. Days, if at all possible. Oh, the things she would do to him. She wasn't interested in doing to him all the things he'd done to her—no, she wanted him surprised. New things he never thought of … or hadn't thought of _yet_.

Daydreaming was good to her. Visions of bloodied Johnnies and pleadings for his life danced in her head for what must have been hours because when her eyes focused on their surroundings, she realized they'd arrived in a very small … village? It didn't seem big enough to be considered a town and it really was smaller than what she thought a village would be, but what else could she call it then? A couple of little houses were visible along the road, as well as what appeared to be a bar called the Luna Mesa. _Can't _imagine_ why he would wanna stop _here_._

Johnny parked his cherished Mustang in one of many open spaces in front of the rundown bar, and she waited patiently until he kicked open his door before she did the same. She knew he liked it that way, made him feel important. He preferred to live in the days when women had no rights; when it was perfectly acceptable for husbands or significant others to beat their wives or girlfriends, to make them do all the housework while cooking and taking care of the children. That was Johnny's world. A world she believed he'd grown up in. She walked behind His Majesty as they entered the bar that turned out to be a small restaurant, though she was the furthest thing from hungry at this moment, and she sat beside him—never in front of him, so he could check out the _other_ action around him (the women), also it was easier for him to assault her without many people noticing—after he'd taken his own seat.

She became aware of the old man staring at her behind the bar before he made his way over to them. She could count the number of other customers he had to take care of on one hand, but it still seemed a little unnecessary for him to approach them. And he eyed her the whole way, intimidating eyes and off-putting facial hair giving her chills, goosebumps painting her bare arms and legs. She'd seen much scarier men in her life, those of a younger age who might have actually posed a threat to her, but there was something about _this_ man. He wasn't frightening per say, just … _weird_. He gazed upon her with an air of admiration almost. Like she was someone he'd been looking for all his life. Like she held the answer to all of his prayers. And when their eyes locked? She saw caring in those dark pools, but also something like foreboding—as if he imagined her capable of somehow turning his world upside down.

So _this_ was what she had to show for a bachelor's degree in Psychology.

Johnny ordered himself a beer—_whatever ya got, surprise me_—then a water for her. She thirsted for at least six shots of Wild Turkey, but ever since she'd _gotten mouthy_ while drinking whiskey, Johnny did not permit her to drink anymore. Of course she didn't argue with his decision. The old man gazed at her as if waiting for her to give her own order, but she simply smiled, small and quick, and his eyes narrowed reprehensibly, like a parent ashamed of their child's poor choice, before he walked silently away to retrieve their drinks.

"Creepy bastard," Johnny remarked.

She could agree with that, but there really was no reason for him to say it within hearing distance of the man serving their _drinks_, possibly Johnny's _food_. Well, whatever. She hoped the old man had heard Johnny and he was angry enough to put something in Johnny's food. Like cyanide.

She sipped her tap water leisurely, watching contemptuously as Johnny sucked down three beers she'd never heard of in rapid succession. He made no attempt at conversation with her, choosing instead to stare at the young women who entered the Luna Mesa just after sunset. Their lack of clothing went along with their lack of inhibitions and no wonder Johnny was drooling after them. He'd cheated on her before with women looking exactly like the ones filling the jukebox with quarters to play the most popular and annoying songs that kids listened to these days, except she didn't consider it cheating. The more sex he got elsewhere, the less he would take from her. _Take_. He never asked for it anymore, never tried foreplay to get her in the mood—he took her dry, which couldn't have been very comfortable for him, but clearly he in no way cared. He preferred most of his sex from her mouth, anyway.

"Hey!" Johnny hollered, nudging her arm with his elbow hard enough to nearly knock her off her chair. She snapped out of her trance and looked at him, having no idea how long she'd been somewhere else. "What the fuck are you _doing_?" Obviously he was not familiar with the term _thinking_.

"Nothing," she safely answered.

He snorted, shaking his head. "Make yourself useful and go get me another beer." And he belched for good measure. God, he disgusted her, so she was thankful for the option of getting up and putting space between them, although she was aware that the separation wouldn't last long.

She approached the bar, feeling the old man's eyes on her from where he stood at the other end talking to a young man who didn't look old enough to drink. Taking a seat, she hoped the ogling old man took his time before making his way over to her. _Give me more time._ She tilted her head, resting it on her fist, and her eyes closed, more daydreaming overtaking a mind she was beginning to feel was filling with static more and more everyday. She didn't think she was going crazy, but then again, crazy people don't know they're crazy. The more she tried thinking clearly, the more she found it to be a difficult task, and the only way she could describe the sensation in her brain was that every thought buzzed throughout her skull like _static_. The thought was there one minute and unraveled the next, resorted to white snow on a television. Sometimes she caught herself scratching her head, trying to itch out that irritating commotion in her mind, and that's where questions of _am I crazy?_ blossomed.

Johnny made her this way, she knew that. Nights of endless crying and terror, more beatings to the head than she could accurately remember, a mountain of stress on her shoulders that would not lift until he decided he was finished with her … or he died. Those were the only two ways she could see out of this mess she'd gotten herself into. He wasn't always like this, but that's what they all say, isn't it? For the first year, he'd been a king treating her like a queen, and the year was just long enough for her to fall desperately in love with him and when he first hit her, she had faith he'd never do it again. When he did it again, she became afraid of him and started planning an escape. When he discovered her plan and put her in the hospital, she was stuck and they both knew it. Since then it's been a mind-boggling onslaught of fists, foreign objects, and unadulterated hatred.

Sitting at the bar alone, not having to feel his warmth and aversion he evidently had for her, produced an uncanny emotion of calm that swept over her like a warm blanket. Feeling like this was alien to her and she almost didn't know how to handle it. So she sat there, chin perched on her hand, eyes closed, listening to the meaningless conversation around her and the awful music the locals were playing. It was peaceful.

"_Can I help you, young lady?_"

She jumped because she always jumped when a male voice spoke to her and her eyes snapped open. The old man was standing before her, amiable smile tugging at lips hidden behind a thick graying mustache and beard. He wasn't strange anymore, but somewhat friendly. Johnny wouldn't think so.

"Yeah, um—" she stammered, completely forgetting why she'd come up here in the first place "—whatever he's having." She pointed in Johnny's direction, hand close to her chest so he wouldn't see. He'd immediately assume she was talking about him, maybe asking for the bartender's help, and God only knows what he'd do to her.

"Anything for you?" he asked skeptically, glancing over her shoulder at Johnny. She hoped he wasn't being too conspicuous.

"No, that's okay," she replied, having a little more control over her voice now.

"Are you sure?" His voice was so comforting, tranquil. She nodded nervously. "You seem like you might enjoy some … whiskey."

Fuck, would she ever! But Johnny would see her, and if he didn't see her, he'd smell it on her breath. She felt her eyes moving in Johnny's direction, but she didn't turn her head. No need to draw attention to herself now.

"No, that's alright," she declined, but he was sliding a shot glass filled to the brim with brown liquid, and she saw a bottle of Jack Daniel's in his hand just before he placed it back beneath the bar.

"On the house," he offered, uncapping a bottle of Johnny's beer for her, too.

"Really, I—"

But he was walking away from her, taking the beer with him as he rounded the bar, and it was clear he would take the beer to Johnny himself, placing his big frame between herself and Johnny so that she could take her shot. But that wouldn't steal the odor from her mouth, would it?

Jesus, she wanted it. Her mouth watered for it. She raised her hand to the bar, the palm sliding over the rough wood until the tips of her fingers met the warm glass. It would cause her trouble, she wasn't ignorant to this fact, but the craving inside of her won over her logical thought process and she grabbed the glass, knocking back the whiskey in one quick swallow. She winced against the sweet burning in her throat as the liquid fell to her stomach and she returned the empty shot glass to the bar. Her body warmed almost instantly, though she didn't quite loosen up. She wasn't afraid of what horrible thing would befall her soon as now she expected it, she knew it was coming. Of course, she didn't know exactly how bad it would be or how much pain she would have to endure, and for what? A shot of Jack Daniel's? Was it _really_ worth that?

Yes, in her cluttered mind, it was worth it. It tasted delicious. It made her feel better. It gave her a perception of happiness and she hadn't experienced happiness in a very, very long time.

"Let me know if you'd like another," the old man conspiratorially told her when he was standing in front of her once more.

She could only smirk, a pang of sadness washing over her like a macabre baptism. She wasn't sure she'd live to have another one, and it was almost comical that the old man had no idea of the trouble she was about to be in.

"_Hey!_"

Her body jerked once more. Goddamn it, Johnny knew she had a fucking name. Why didn't he ever use it? She glanced up at the old man one last time, their eyes meeting, and she felt like her eyes were pleading with him to help her, but she wasn't totally certain. She'd been feeling a lot of things lately and they were all followed by speculation over whether or not she was actually suffering them. Nobody could help her now, anyway, she was fucked—fucked since Jump Street. Ultimately, she stood, testing defiance, and she held her head high as she returned to her seat beside her cruel boyfriend.

"Did you really have that weird fucker bring my beer to me?" he asked incredulously. "That's why I sent _you_ up there, fucking idiot." Half of the beer in question was gone. She didn't know how they were getting to Vegas because he'd rather drive drunk and kill them than allow her to drive his precious car.

"He offered," she shortly replied, aiming her mouth away from him.

"So?" He grabbed her hair suddenly, yanking it back with all the force he could muster without alerting the other customers to what he was doing, and he shoved his face against her ear. Instinct told her to cry out, but her lips tightened to maintain silence for fear of something worse than simple hair pulling. "I didn't _ask_ if he offered, did I?"

"No," she forced out, neck muscles screaming, hair threatening to detach itself from her scalp in utter surrender. "I'm sorry."

"Is that—" He turned her face toward him, pressing his nose into her mouth, and she knew it was all over with then. "Did you … did you drink _whiskey_ while you were sittin' up there all fuckin' pretty for the old ass bartender?" He relinquished his death grip on her hair only to grab her chin and jerk her face to him. "Did you?"

"He said it was on the house," she obediently answered through clenched teeth and crushed lips.

"And that made it fucking _alright_?"

"No."

He pushed her head away from him, glaring at her with murderously dark eyes that chilled her right down to her bones. She thought the death stare he was giving her was a promise of things to come, but then he stood, towering over her and foreshadowing their entire relationship: he was above her, better than her, just like every other man on the planet. He turned to the bartender who'd probably been watching the entire scene unfold—she hoped he felt ashamed of himself; he'd gotten her to this point, after all—and asked where the bathroom was. Actually, he demanded to know where it was, taking out less than a quarter of his anger on the old man, and the seasoned bartender returned a matching glower that lasted long enough to make her wonder if he wasn't going to put a stop to all this. But he didn't. Of course he didn't. He pointed out where the bathrooms were, and Johnny picked her up by the sleeve of her t-shirt, dragging her along behind him toward the privacy he required to beat every last bit of resistance out of her. _You'll never have another drink again, bitch._

She was thrown into the tiny confines of the men's bathroom, her forehead meeting angrily with a wall where she nearly collapsed against it if not for Johnny's hand reclaiming her hair. He spun her around, forced her back into the wall, and then he backhanded her, knuckles landing perfectly on her cheekbone and lip, and she pinballed into the corner, bouncing off each wall before falling to her knees. Her mind became clouded, more so than usual, and her vision blurred. She blinked, slow, hard, trying to correct her vision while fighting off the agonizing throbbing from her forehead and the right side of her face. This wasn't the worst beating she'd ever received by far, but it was entirely possibly that he wasn't finished yet. His boots were in front of her, still, portentous. Her head shook like a cartoon character trying to clear the air of stars or birds and she didn't pray for it to be over—_God is dead_—like any other woman would; she just waited. Waited for more, waited for him to walk away satisfied with himself.

He spit on her. And _that_ made him feel good, confirmed his status of more important than her, and he snorted at her fall from grace before slapping his fingers across the top of her head—a hollow thwack echoing off the walls of the tiny bathroom—before he opened the door. She expected a crowd to be waiting for them outside, all of them wondering what the hell had been going on in the men's bathroom, none of them concerned with intervening, but there was no one out there. Johnny checked his reflection in the mirror and then told her to clean herself up because she'd already drawn enough attention to herself for one night. She'd already planned on doing so, though not for the same reason.

The mirror, however, produced an image she did not recognize. The elbow-length dirty blonde hair was mildly familiar, but the chocolate eyes weren't brown so much as they were black now. And the cavernous lines etched beneath those eyes were not from age. The woman looking back at her was a stranger, a victim, a borderline bedlamite. Blood trickled from her swollen lip and a red welt had taken up residence on her cheek from Johnny's knuckles. By tomorrow, it would be a full on bruise, also a red flag that she was the prey of a malevolent man and too cowardly to do anything about it. Whatever. She was used to it.

The nebulous eyes in the mirror gazed back at her, repugnant, mocking, flickering with something she'd never seen before. She started, head jerking to the side, unsure if she was seeing things due to the recent trauma to her head. It was a disconnection, an emancipation of … coherence and cognizance to make room for more static and an unknown amount of instability. She didn't know this, or she did and she refused to accept or acknowledge it. Things were slowly coming apart in her brain, thoughts and memories disintegrating, emotions losing meanings, facts she'd learned about her own growing condition forgotten but not gone. She comprehended none of this, her dismantling mind allowing her only to centralize on her physical injuries. She wiped the blood from her chin and lip, gazing curiously down at the liquid on her thumb before once again raising her eyes to the shattered reflection of a breaking woman. Her lids fell to half mast as she raised her finger to the mirror, using the pad of her thumb to paint a small X right between her addled eyes. She didn't know why she did it and she didn't even really notice she was doing it until after she finished. It was a goodbye gesture, a farewell to the person she once was.

Johnny was dancing with the obnoxious girls who'd played the jukebox when she returned to her seat at their table. She felt no anger toward him or jealousy of the girls. She didn't feel anything. Didn't or _couldn't_. Neutrality. She was Switzerland now. Brushing her fingers through her tangled hair, she leaned her head back, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath, nostrils filling with the toothsome aroma of second-hand smoke and stale beer. Her lip was pulsating and when she ran her tongue along the warm, fluttering skin, she encountered wetness. More blood by the coppery taste that settled over her palate. She'd always found the flavor appealing, as odd as it might sound, just like she loved the smell of gasoline—she was always eager to pump gas for Johnny. A cigarette would be pleasing right about now, she thought, breathing in deeply the smoke wafting through the air, but bumming one of those cancer sticks would merely gain the same result imbibing alcohol had.

Well, maybe this time he'd kill her.

_Ha_, she smiled, _fat chance._

A ruckus near the entrance to the Luna Mesa drew her jittery attention, and she watched a group of locals—_locals_ being the only way she knew to describe them and their dirty skin, equally grungy clothes, surly attitudes, and the way they greeted mostly everyone in attendance, particularly the bartender—file in and block the doorway with their size and numbers. Not to be judgmental, but she assumed they were the rowdy regulars that no one really liked being around but had to tolerate because they were friends with the bartender. The one in front with the short, dark hair seemed to be the "leader" of the bunch, pushing people out of his way to clear a path to the bar where he only waited a few seconds before a bottle of whiskey and several shot glasses were placed in front of him. He poured a shot for himself and gulped it down, then he filled the other glasses and passed them around.

She didn't know why she watched him so closely, but her eyes would move nowhere else. She wasn't even sure where Johnny had gotten off to. The local in the black work shirt, jeans, and scuffed boots didn't say much, though his friends were speaking to him, all of them cackling boisterously over something that evidently did not entertain their elusive compatriot. He chose to concentrate on his drinking instead, devouring nearly half the bottle before he offered a third set of shots. She got the sense that he was more of a loner, keeping a circle of associates for untold benefits. His hair was greasy and shined beneath the harsh lights overhead, grease or dirt stains decorated his face and neck, and his clothing was wrinkled and blemished as well. Not at all attractive, though to be fair, she'd only seen the side of his face. The air surrounding him presented malignancy. Thanks to her schooling and personal experience, she was easily able to pick up on his hostility. With an evil smirk, she could only hope Johnny made trouble with that sinister stranger.

Checking out again, she sent her attention to the window, glancing over the cars in the parking lot. A few sedans, mostly trucks. Nothing interesting happening outside, but it was just fine and dandy to sit there and look—not worry, not clench her muscles against contact from her boyfriend. The table shook then, suddenly, briefly petrifying her and freezing her mind and body.

But it wasn't Johnny who'd sat next to her.


	2. Top Down Processing

_**Thanks so much for the reviews! I'm glad you're all enjoying this story. Don't forget to let me know what you think!**_

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**STAGE TWO - TOP-DOWN PROCESSING  
**_Perceptual processes in which information from an individual's past experience, knowledge, expectations, motivations, and background influence the way a perceived object is interpreted and classified._

His eyes enraptured her first and foremost. Cobalt, they were cobalt, and utterly deranged. Convoluted. A band of royal blue surrounded the cobalt shade, just as intricate as its lighter hue, and she was perfectly, wholly, fascinated. So many things were going on in those eyes, so many emotions and words and other descriptions she couldn't begin to decipher. Some say the eyes are the windows to the soul. If that were true, she decided, locked in a staring contest that possibly carried vicious and deviant consequences, then this man's soul was buried in barbaric and inhuman turmoil. She'd never seen eyes like these before, so maybe her diagnoses were wrong, but she really didn't think so. He wasn't attempting to _hide_ what was going on inside of him, the storm that was clearly raging behind closed doors—if anything, he was broadcasting it for anyone to see, if they _looked_ for it, or if they knew what to look for. Like she did. She'd been trained to notice these things, and in spite of the crumbling currently taking place inside her own head, her psychiatric instinct remained intact. For now. The rest of him was just the same up close as she'd perceived from far away; dingy clothing, grimy skin, and he smelled awful, too; like nothing she'd ever inhaled before.

On the other hand—and this was the newborn side of her thinking, the one birthed from the raw animal deep within every human that never found its way out of most of the population (murderers, rapists, molesters being the exceptions)—she was able to find an enticing man beneath the sleaze. He could be handsome if maybe he cleaned himself up, got some clothes that hadn't gone weeks without seeing a washing machine, but then again, none of this mattered. Those motley eyes were still staring at her, pulling her in like two tiny, ultramarine magnets, and she gasped for air when her brain began screaming from suffocation. He'd taken her breath away. Johnny hadn't even done that when they'd first met; although, her breath was missing for a different reason. A reason she couldn't quite figure out yet. His thin lips formed a hard line beneath a light brown goatee and the beginnings of a beard on his cheeks, and his hair was nearly black, mussed, something he probably didn't ever care about. His shoulders were wonderfully broad, something easily grabbed onto, chest and stomach appeared flat, legs were long. Yes, he could have been attractive. If he wasn't already, according to her turbulent thoughts.

"What?" she finally asked when it became apparent that this enigmatic man was not going to speak first. His eyes narrowed at her words as if he were insulted by her brash greeting, but she could tell he wasn't insulted so much as he was intrigued. Was he one of those men that did not tolerate such insolence from women? Of course he was. They all were.

"You're pretty," he said softly, chin rising on the last word. His voice—for the love of _God_—was so soft and underwhelming. It wasn't harsh or cold like his eyes suggested it might be. The tone was misleading—was he manipulating her with the ease with which he spoke or did he mean what he said? Probably the former. She didn't want to read too much into it, either. _How long had it been since someone, no matter who, had called her pretty?_

"Thanks," she replied flatly, glancing back to the parking lot. But the last thing she wanted to do right now, at this very moment, was look away from this alluringly detrimental man. There was still Johnny to think about in spite of the fact that she'd virtually forgotten about him. Her fragile mind had been consumed by aggressive azure.

"You don't look like you're having a good time," he observed, volume still quiet and controlled, a bit strained.

"I'm not," she answered honestly. "And it'll be even worse if you don't leave me alone."

The jukebox music cut and she heard the stranger inhale deeply through his nostrils, decidedly infuriated. She felt his heat suddenly as he leaned toward her, his wrist skating across the tabletop toward the ashtray, and she noticed the cigarette between his fingers. He was tempting her in more ways than she cared to realize. He flicked the ashes, and her obsidian eyes watched the smoking tobacco raise to his mouth for another hit. His cheeks hollowed out, and her head tilted as she examined a pair of cheekbones that were incredibly sculpted and so high on his face that it seemed inhuman.

Yes, beneath the sediment he was a good looking man, but beneath the man? Something fierce stirred within him, something restless, something raging. He was placid and still, and yet his body thrummed with frenzied hysteria. And the fact that he could so easily center his entire attention on one thing, on _her_, was equivocal. He could be one thing at the same time he was being something completely different. He was something she'd never seen before, someone she'd never encountered before … a human being she thought impossible to exist in the first place. And because of all of this she was altogether instantly infatuated with him.

"Should I be afraid of your boyfriend over there?" he nonchalantly asked, jerking his head in Johnny's general direction.

"No," she answered faintly.

"Should you be?" he pressed. One last drag on the cigarette and he snuffed it in the ashtray. She didn't justify that with a response, electing instead to wrap her arms around herself and limit the closeness of their bodies. However, it resulted in this strange man reaching out to touch her face, the backs of his fingers brushing tenderly over the welt on her cheek from when her boyfriend's knuckles had met her skin. "He the one that tried messin' up the pretty?" he asked just before she jerked away from his contact. His hand hung in the air between them for a moment before it dropped into his lap.

Incapable of ignoring the burning on her cheek his fingers had ignited, she tried haphazardly touching the flaming skin with the tips of her own fingers to reacquaint it with normalcy. Mission unaccomplished. His fingers were still there. They were resting on his thigh now, but they were on her face, too—apparitions whispering across her flesh. To make herself less obvious, she pretended to scratch at her cheek, consequently causing pain inflicted by her nails scraping all across the welt, and she winced.

"Did he do that?" the man prompted, clearly knowing and recognizing his boundaries, choosing to ignore them, intentionally antagonizing the situation.

"Is it that you want me to have a matching one on this cheek?" she angrily asked, no longer feeling the fear of the consequences of her attitude. She was curious as to whether or not that was his intention; to make her give him lip so he could cut her down to size. Or tell Johnny his girlfriend was getting out of line and have him handle her. "I mean, what's your plan here?" But she couldn't stop herself. Literally, she couldn't prevent the words from coming out of her mouth, she couldn't think about them before she spoke, and she was only competent enough at this point to consciously ignore doing something that would absolutely result in physical harm.

The stranger grabbed the chair he was seated on between his legs and yanked it forward, effectively closing the space between them. The chair legs landing back on the floor were loud enough to rattle the walls, and the fact that the music had stopped gave all the patrons the opportunity to hear it. Knowing that Johnny could be one of them did not deter her, or it did, but her eyes, her body, her entire being, at present, were held hostage by this avant-garde, devilishly manipulative man before her. If he was a man at all. As far as she was concerned, he could be the Devil himself.

"He fuck up your face?" he provoked. In spite of his need to bypass proper grammar—_the English language_—she knew he had intelligence within the crisscrossed, backward brain nestled in his skull. He knew what he was doing, what he was saying; there was a reason, a method to his madness, a means to an end, behind everything.

"How is that any of your business?" she demanded, once the swelling of her tongue and the dryness of her mouth abated.

"You like that?" he went on like he hadn't heard her speak. He probably hadn't. She was a woman and therefore had nothing important to say. "You like havin' your ass handed to you every day?"

"What the hell kind of question is that?" she snapped, spinning around to face him. "And who the fuck do you think you are?"

He was close now, so close. She could smell the smoke on his clothes and the whiskey on his breath. The cerulean in his eyes was that much more lucid, so much more … engaging. Spellbinding. _A narcotic_. He was someone new, she resolved, someone _not_ Johnny. The first man who'd spoken to her in months. But still she noticed his eyes, still she noticed the round tip of his nose, still she noticed the deep red tinge to his lips, and still she noticed, far past the beryl of his eyes, the gluttony devouring him from the inside out. He starved for something as yet unknown, and if she was reading him correctly, he felt as though _she_ could quell that hunger for him. She knew one thing for sure: she did _not_ want to know what exactly he lusted after.

"So you do have some fight in you," he smirked condescendingly, pulling a cigarette from behind his ear, lighting it with a Zippo from his pocket. "I like that." The used smoke he exhaled out of his lungs blew across her face.

"I bet you do," she spat, inconspicuously inhaling the second-hand smoke.

"Mmm!" he mumbled, shoulders wiggling, masquerading as a shiver.

She was so puzzled, so perplexed and rattled by this man she knew had bad intentions toward … _everything_, but it was the befuddlement that kept her glued to her chair, her eyes never leaving his face, every retort out of her mouth entertaining him further. Something strange had happened when their eyes met the first time—something strange and cataclysmic. The planets seemed to have aligned in a ruinous way, not unlike the way predicted by prophets with regards to the end of the world. She had a peculiar sensation worming through her insides that she and him were supposed to meet.

But why?

"Who are you?" she questioned prudently, whispered words floating through the air between them, riding the curling smoke from his cigarette.

"Who the fuck are you?" he retaliated sharply.

Inherently arrested, she intuitively answered with not but a secret message: "Caroline."

"_Caroline_." A shudder wracked her body at the way he said her name. Those three syllables were saturated with unmitigated torridity and they took the breath right out of her. She struggled for air again, inhaling more smoke than oxygen. "I like that. _Caroline_." His eyes narrowed, predatory. "_Caroline_." Her name rolled off his tongue with sexual flavors garnished with indecency. He wasn't trying to hide what exactly was on his mind when he looked at her, his eyes raking down her body, pausing longingly at her crossed legs.

"Stop saying my name," she requested breathlessly.

"Or what?" he rumbled meanly, forcing his face into her personal space. His nose was less than an inch from hers, the sour scent wafting off of him pierced her nose and caused it to crinkle. "You gonna give me a _dirty look_?"

He had a point—she wouldn't do anything to stop him. In fact, it hadn't been much of a demand as it was a request. The way he said her name—the lecherous tone to his easygoing voice, the lewd glint in his eyes—sent a thrill through her body; one not completely unwanted, but solely foreign, as Johnny hadn't spoken to her like that since the first time he'd swung at her. Granted, she was aware of why he was speaking this way to her, what he was trying to get from her, but she'd be lying if she said she wasn't flattered by his wicked eyes and how he said her name. His filthy appearance was unorthodox, but that did not erase the fact that he was male, and she was female, and hormones would always win in the end. Just being near another man who was clearly sexually attracted to her was enough to make her heart race, send her temperature through the roof.

"Just don't," she repeated, absolutely no self-confidence left in her, though it had originally been stolen by Johnny. If, by some very slim chance she had any left, it now belonged to this saturnine man sitting before her.

"Tell me what you're gonna do about it, _Caroline_," he rasped, hitting the cigarette, cheeks collapsing, eyes constricting to slits as he stared her down, challenging her to threaten him in any way.

"I'm gonna—" she stammered "—I'm … I'm gonna go to the bathroom."

She started to stand hurriedly, but slowed her rise as the stranger joined her. They rose together slowly, eyes linked in a battle that would eventually lead to a war she would almost certainly lose. Or surrender without a fight. Her ascension stopped once she reached full height, but the local continued growing to nearly six feet, his shoulder meeting her eye line. If she wasn't unnerved before, she was now according to the knocking in her knees and the tremors in her hands and fingers. His stony gaze was paralyzing, and she had to relearn how to walk before she extracted herself from this meeting of minds on different, but slowly converging, levels, to go to the bathroom across the hall from the one she'd been thrown into by her boyfriend.

He followed her. She never turned back to see if he was there because she didn't have to—she could feel the heat radiating off his chest and bouncing against her back, she could hear him breathing, and his boots thumped so closely behind her that she thought he was taking the exact same steps as she was at the exact same time. Mimicking her. Attempting, she thought, to provoke her into more non-thought out responses, maybe even a physical answer to his onslaught. None of which she really saw herself doing, but she never assumed she'd mouth off to a complete stranger, either. Evidently she was capable of anything.

_Anything?_

Upon arriving at the door, she contemplated quickly how to go about closing it behind her. Push it closed with her arm, keeping her back to him? Turn and slam the door in his face, hoping he would relent and leave her alone? She chose the former as she entered the tiny ladies' room identical to the men's and she tried to put the door between them, but he forced himself inside with her. _He_ closed the door, slamming it shut with a scuffed black boot. Reluctantly, though entirely impulsively, she spun around, putting them face to face once more. He was somehow taller, so much closer than she'd expected him to be, and he was glowering down at her, jaw muscles tightening as his teeth clenched behind paper thin lips. His facial expression said he wanted to put her through a wall, but his eyes smoldered, unadulterated _thirst_ as clear as the sky was blue. And there was that flattery again. Johnny never looked at her like that. Sex for him was meaningless and he only got it from her when he couldn't find it elsewhere and he never cared whether she got anything out of it or not. This man probably wouldn't concern himself with her pleasure, either, but she didn't deny or ignore the rush of warmth that started between her legs and flowed through her veins, circulating throughout her entire body. He could force himself on her at any moment, bend her into position his heart desired, taking from her what Johnny liked to steal, but it would be different. Somehow it would be different.

She would not fight this man.

"What are you starin' at?" he asked. "Hmm?"

His lips. She was staring at his lips as he spoke, for the first time noticing the mole on the left side of his mouth just above his upper lip. She was almost able to taste the bitter flavor she knew his mouth would have following the whiskey he'd ingested, also the state his teeth were in suggested he had no sense of dental hygiene. So why the hell was she aroused by him? Why did she _want_ him to put her on her back and spread her legs?

Finding her voice, she finally said, without much conviction, "Leave me alone."

"Huh," he chuckled, disregarding her appeal, eyes locked on her midsection, and she glanced down to see just what exactly fascinated him so. Her frayed shorts that had once fit perfectly—before Johnny had ordered her to _lose some fucking weight_, and she'd dropped from one hundred thirty pounds to one hundred ten pounds in less than two weeks—now hung slackly off her hips and the thin t-shirt she'd worn in lieu of the Utah heat was stuck to her skin a couple of inches above her belly button. A rather large chunk of her tanned—another Johnny _request_—skin was visible, and this outlandish, daunting man towering over her was _drooling_ for a taste. A taste she wasn't entirely opposed to giving him.

His hand was hot as it grabbed at her side, the nail on his smallest finger scraping against a hipbone that would be rather noticeable if she were lying down and stretching out. She gasped and smacked at the offending appendage, squeaking out words that might have been _get away from me_, but her lips were numb and her tongue had committed suicide at some point, so the sentence was jumbled, and then she wasn't wholly positive she'd said anything at all. His eyes were bleak and maniacal—_black_—as he snatched her arm and spun her around to face the wall, bending her limb in ways it wasn't meant to be, and he was all over her then. He imprisoned her arm against her back, threatening to break it with the strength he used, and his chest met with her shoulder blades, hips against her backside, knees arching into her thighs as he reduced his height.

"You're makin' me hard," he happily divulged, hips thrusting forward so that she could feel said excitement, know that he wasn't lying, and know what she did to him. Her eyes closed as she imagined what it could do for her, how it would feel, how it could potentially make her feel (if he allowed it), and her hips rolled back into his. "Oh, yeah!" he exclaimed, pulling her hair away from her neck so he could crush his face into her skin and breathe in her scent. "I _like_ that." He bit her flesh and her body jolted, spine straightening, bringing the front of her body flush against the wall before she threw her hips backward again, directly into the stranger's. "Found me a good one," he praised, hands all over her now, coarse skin bringing to life the tissue on her flat belly all the way up to and passed her prominent ribcage.

His presence momentarily disappeared … until he spun her around to face him, crowding her into the wall once more. But now their eyes were linked, matched in desire, on their way to equivalency in madness. She welcomed it—she let loose of all worries and cares and fears of Johnny, drowning in the stranger's feral eyes, once more forgetting to breathe. He was what she'd been looking for all her life; the one who could give her _back_ any shred of humanity, no matter how basic. And from the look in his eyes, the bit of humanity he was capable of giving her was probably somewhere _less_ than fundamental.

"You want it, don't you?" he panted, hand sliding down her side to her hip and back to her ass where he squeezed, hard, and a groan narrowly escaped the back of her throat. "Yeah … you want it." His nose met hers, then his forehead, and he gave her face a light shove with his own. "Give me a kiss," he requested softly, but she knew he wasn't asking, nor was he gently imploring; he was commanding with a calculating tone.

"No," she whispered, eyes following his, obsessive, never blinking. She kept tabs on every single move he made, though not really for her benefit—she was more interested in _what_he did and _how_ he did it. He rocked side to side, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, ferocious eyes carving through her, leaving what she knew would be a lasting lesion on her psyche.

"Come on, give me a kiss," he coaxed, bringing both hands to her behind now, molding their bodies together, and she had no choice—no, she had lots of choices—but to place her hands on his chest. Her fingers traced the patch sewn into his shirt with a name embroidered on it. _Mac_. Nickname? Real name? Someone else's shirt? Why did it matter? His pectoral muscles were so solid beneath her palms, and his hands were massaging her ass, and there were so many things going on at that moment that his connivance snuck right past her deteriorating intellect, and she licked her lips in anticipation of the kiss she was about to gift him.

But he beat her to it. His sight had locked on her mouth mere seconds before her tongue swept over them, and when that happened, his mouth attacked hers. He did taste like whiskey and what she assumed to be the pungent flavor of rotting teeth, but the fact that he was trying to lick the back of her neck through her mouth, and his hips were thrusting into hers, and his hands were all over her, trumped what would normally be quite a repelling essence. His virile body was doing wonders to her feminine, hormonal needs, causing her to groan into his mouth as she threw her arms around his neck in a sudden desperate need to cement herself to this strange man.

The bathroom door abruptly flew open, slamming against the wall, and she and—_Mac_?—the local separated. Mostly she was the one to disengage their embrace; _Mac's_ hand remained on her backside, floating to her hip as the space she tried to put between them increased. They both looked at Johnny—Caroline with an expression of horror, _Mac_ with a look of entertainment and boldness. _I'm fuckin' with your girl, do somethin' about it_, he said without the use of words. And Johnny was more than happy to teach women lessons in the way of disrespecting their significant others, but men were a completely different story. She had it on good authority that he was afraid of getting his ass annihilated in a fight with another male. Women, including herself, were too terrified to give it back to him.

"What the _fuck_?" Johnny screamed, eyes searing holes right through his girlfriend.

She lost control of her breathing and her heart battered in her chest at a rate likely undetected by any hospital monitor. She'd subconsciously known that she would get caught, but the stranger's eyes and puzzling demeanor had reeled her in and in the process of doing so, he'd killed her. She was dead where she stood. Johnny wouldn't let her get by with broken bones and a mangled face. Not this time. The macabre in his eyes was simple to read—as soon as he got her to a place where there were no witnesses, he was going to kill her. And maybe that wouldn't be so bad. He'd kill her, and she'd no longer have to endure this terrible hand she'd been dealt, this undeserving life she'd been given. She would be free.

"_Caroline_," he growled, extending his hand toward her in a chilling, gentlemanly gesture.

With one last glimpse at Freedom—she wished she knew if his name was actually _Mac_—she placed one dainty hand into her executioner's, locked eyes with _Mac's_, and she allowed Johnny to yank her away from the bathroom, nearly pulling her arm out of its socket. The entire establishment had heard Johnny's scream and they now turned to watch the scene unfold, none of them in any hurry to put a stop to what they all assumed was going to happen to the much-too-skinny blonde woman with the petrified brown eyes. They simply watched; watched the damned woman walk her last walk, look with her eyes for the last time, feel her hip bump into the corner of a table. And they did nothing. Not even the bartender, who'd seemed the most interested in her quandary—he watched, too, but his eyes conveyed different emotions. He felt sorry for her, but at the same time, he felt as though he'd done all he could for her. And somehow, she decided, glancing at him over her shoulder as _Mac_ made his presence known once more and leaned against the bar beside the older man, she knew he'd pinned his hopes to the man she'd kissed. The bartender had counted on _Mac_ to help her out in some way. It didn't make sense, of course, but she read that in his eyes. There had been a plan in place involving herself and the guy in the scuffed boots.

Since they didn't help her, since no one in that bar _lifted a finger_ for her, she smirked at them, eyes panning over every customer she could before falling on the bartender and _Mac_. For those two she had something special planned; after the smirk, her eyes hardened, darkened, and she lifted her middle finger in their direction—a final goodbye to the both of them. _Mac_ grinned at the gesture and then turned and leaned over the bar to whisper something into the bartender's ear. She saw the older man with the ponytail reach behind the bar just as the door slammed after her, and Johnny jerked her toward the Mustang.

Her last ride.


	3. Altruism

Author's Note: Hello, any reader that might be left! I know it's been a while, but I never once left this story; unfortunately, life got in the way. So I'm hoping I still have all my old readers and maybe bring in some new ones!

* * *

**STAGE THREE – ALTRUISM  
**_Prosocial behaviors a person carries out without considering his or her own safety or interests._

She wasn't afraid this time because this time, she knew it was all over for her. She'd touched another man, kissed another man, and Johnny would not stand for that. What man would? Sitting there in the passenger seat of the Mustang, inebriated boyfriend driving her—maybe the both of them—to their deaths, Caroline smiled. _Escapism_, she thought, nodding slightly, _that's what this is_.

"You stupid fucking whore," Johnny spat, enunciating every single word so that she would feel his fury, know his rage. It wasn't hard to figure out, but being Johnny, he had to let the world know he was disgruntled and why exactly he was experiencing this disgruntlement. But still, Caroline felt no fear of him. Fear of any possible pain he might cause her before he killed her? Yes, she felt that a bit, but other than that, she was numb. "Did you even look at that guy?" he went on. "I'm sure you noticed he had no teeth when you had your tongue in his mouth! Are you kidding me, Caroline? Are you fucking kidding me?" He was screaming at the top of his lungs, beads of sweat popping out on his forehead from the effort, and she still did not feel that elusive worm slithering around her heart like she did when she was nervous, or scared, or worried. All she wanted right now was a cigarette.

"I'm going to kill you," Johnny promised, a tiny smile growing across his lips. As if he'd been looking forward to her screwing up, making a mistake, so that he could put an end to their toxicity. He probably had been. He'd probably been investigating and examining everything she did, everywhere she went, to find that perfect excuse to finally X her out of his life for good. But then again, that would suggest he had a conscience if he couldn't kill her without a viable reason, and she didn't—couldn't—wouldn't—believe he had one of those. "Do you know that?" he asked, making himself and his wrath known once more. "Do you know that I'm gonna fucking kill you?"

"I heard you the first time," Caroline softly replied. It felt good to not have to watch what she said anymore. He'd made up his mind concerning her punishment, and she accepted it; no need to bow to his dominance any longer.

He reached across the car and slapped her. It happened so quickly, like the strike of a venomous snake, and she only realized it'd happened after it was all over and she felt the sting on her cheek. She didn't give him the pleasure of seeing her reach up to massage the pain away from her skin, so she sat there, eyes forward, smirk still glued to her lips in spite of the throbbing on her cheek. It would all be over soon, she promised herself. Despite the fact that she could not wait to be done with this life, to fold the ghastly hand she'd been dealt by whatever god existed or did not exist, she longed to give Johnny just a simple taste of his own medicine. Because he'd had such control over her life for so long, she knew she wouldn't be the one to teach him a lesson, but she hoped she would be somewhere in the afterlife with the ability to watch when he got what was most certainly coming to him.

"I thought about just leavin' you out here," Johnny slurred, swerving back into their lane of traffic. Caroline's eyes cut to Johnny, then back to the road. Would they both die in a fiery car accident tonight? She would only accept this outcome if she died right away, and Johnny was left to suffer with missing limbs for at least a few days. "Let you wander around for a couple days and starve to death. Get eaten by some coyotes or somethin'." Laughter gurgled from deep in his throat, and Caroline took the time to glance up at the moon. So big and beautiful, not a cloud in the sky to hide it, and she leaned her head against the window to allow the moon's luminescence to bathe over her. This would be the last time she ever saw the moon and felt its cosmic beauty on her face.

"But I didn't wanna make it that easy for you to hitchhike or somethin'," Johnny continued. Caroline inhaled deeply, irritated that he was ruining the last bit of life she was trying to enjoy. "I got somethin' special lined up for ya, though, sweetheart." He glimpsed her sideways, grinning wildly, frightfully. That little smile conjured up the first piece of fear she'd felt since this whole thing began. "Because I do love you."

"Love me so much you're gonna kill me," Caroline uttered, not really trying to be heard but knowing she would.

"It's a lesson, Carolina," he stressed, and she rolled her eyes. Fuck, she hated it when he called her that. "You fucked up … bad. And now you gotta learn your lesson."

"How am I supposed to learn a lesson if I'll be dead?" she pressed. Why not? She was dead already.

Johnny shrugged. "Not my problem."

Of course it wasn't.

Headlights suddenly appeared directly behind them, high beams momentarily blinding Caroline, as she'd been gazing out the window in the direction of the side mirror, and Johnny let out a litany of curse words, hand flying up to cover his eyes. As soon as the lights appeared, the couple was jolted forward by a hard knock from the bumper of the Mustang, presumably by the vehicle behind them that had materialized out of nowhere. Johnny continued hollering, and Caroline couldn't be sure, as she'd never heard it before, but was that panic in his voice?

"What the fuck?" Johnny clamored, desperately searching the scene behind his vehicle through the rear view mirrors for an explanation as to what was happening to them. Well, to him, more likely, as he couldn't have cared less what befell Caroline after her unforgiving transgression.

Another strike from the invading headlights, and this time Johnny couldn't keep control of the car, consequently swerving into the lane of oncoming traffic. But as they'd both noticed throughout their day of travel, not many people trekked down this road, so there wasn't much to worry about with regard to colliding with a passerby. Unfortunate for Caroline. She'd grabbed onto the door handle at some point, more so to keep herself from bouncing around the car than to save her life, and she glanced lethargically into the mirror on her side. The lights—the headlights were the brightest they were capable of, also there was illumination coming from the roof of the vehicle, which suggested they were being bombarded by some kind of truck—were blaring, creating blue and red blobs in her line of vision as she stared, captivated by the radiance and the fact that she and Johnny were ironically under siege. She wasn't thinking, her brain unable to be bothered by such a complex task; she was more or less along for the ride at this point. Whatever happened happened. Come what may. And then she burst out with laughter when the song with the same title from the movie _Moulin Rouge_ came into her head.

"What the hell are you—?"

But the question couldn't be finished let alone answered. The third onslaught sent the Mustang to the right side of the road, the front tire slamming atop a stray rock that was every bit the size of a doghouse, and the car went airborne, tipping to the left. Caroline maintained her grip on the door, sure it wouldn't be enough to save her life, as she watched the world turn vertical momentarily before flipping upside down as the Ford crashed into the desert on its roof. The car slid for at least a hundred feet before grinding to a stop, its occupants having blacked out from smacking their heads against various objects, and all was still for a few short moments.

Caroline slowly came to before Johnny, her eyes indolently blinking as she awoke. Only … she wasn't necessarily Caroline anymore. As soon as her vision was clear and she was able to see things, she saw them differently, she saw everything differently. Glancing at Johnny, her master's degree capable brain that had been wholly reverted back to its most basic functions saw, not a stranger, but someone who wasn't completely familiar to her, either. Deep inside, however, there was undeniable detestation for the man beside her. He'd done her wrong, so horribly wrong, but her mind had cracked, a substantial chasm left within, and she couldn't recall what exactly he'd done to her. He made her curious, he made her irate, and her brand new eyes began to survey the demolished vehicle for a weapon to use on the unconscious man before she even realized she was doing it. Her brain, this fresh mind, was acting before thinking, not even considering a thought-out plan. She no longer knew the meaning of the word plan. To be fair, she didn't know the meaning of a lot of things anymore.

Rolling her torso toward the driver, she spit blood at him, most of it landing on his face, and she licked her lips, tasting that delicious copper tang. It was so good, better than ice water on a hot summer day, better than a glass of wine after a long day at work. She laughed at his face painted in his blood as well as her own now, taking a moment to really laugh it out, and then she began trying to divulge a plan of extracting herself from the wreckage. Once that was accomplished, she would see about finding something sharp to finish off the man in the driver's seat. Because he'd beat her, she remembered suddenly, he'd beat her to the point of nearly killing her, and he deserved to pay for that. Back to the task at hand, she located the buckle of the seat belt, pressing it in with both thumbs several times in succession before it released the belt. She came crashing to the ceiling of the Mustang, her neck screaming in pain, but any injuries she may have had were not a concern. As she climbed to her hands and knees, she started to crawl out the shattered passenger window, pieces of glasses embedding themselves in her skin, but she hardly noticed, focused solely on getting out of the vehicle and causing as much pain as possible to the man who'd relentlessly kicked her ass for many years.

"Hello, you," she whispered, stopping to admire a large chunk of glass on the desert floor, glinting in the moonlight as if it wanted to be found and used for her mission.

"I knew you'd make it," he gushed, voice deep and out of breath, and yes, she remembered him. The slovenly unkempt man from the bar, the one who'd called her pretty, the one who wouldn't leave her alone, the one who'd followed her into the bathroom, the one she'd kissed and touched and had allowed to kiss and touch her.

_Mac_.

She glared up at him, slowly standing on shaking, bruised, and cut legs, clutching the jagged piece of glass in her hand. Should she kill him, too? Images of sliding the weapon through his belly, feeling his warm blood gush over her skin jogged across her mind, but then she recalled the kisses and touches in the dingy bathroom. She'd _liked_ that. A smirk danced across her lips, eyes staring up at the filthy man through their lashes, and she suddenly put one and one together: he'd caused the accident that had sent the Mustang flying, rolling, ending on its top. This fact didn't scare her like it normally would have; no, it _excited_ her. He wasn't afraid—not of killing or hurting people, not of being caught, and he certainly wasn't afraid of Johnny. Maybe he'd tried to kill them both, but his lack of fear of _anything_ made her feel safe. Safe?

_Safe._

"Did you?" she breathed, finally replying to his remark, clutching the glass in her hand so tightly that she could feel it cutting through her skin. Blood streaked down, dripping off her fingers, but she didn't feel a thing.

"Oh, yeah," he said, taking two steps forward, shoulders dipping with obscene arrogance and want. The heavy air between them was cut in half with this advance, and Caroline found herself struggling to inhale. _Maybe it's from the accident_.

Accident? _What accident?_ All that had happened to she and Johnny had been intentional, on purpose, so she would have to refer to it as something different—the _crash_, perhaps. As she thought this through, her eyes never left his, and his never left hers. The battle was raging again between their complex and borderline personalities, both minds becoming bogged down with confusion and that familiar—to Caroline, that is—static as her dark irises and his light ones refused to be the one to look away first.

Just as she was about to lift the glass and plunge it into the main artery in Mac's chest, a voice carried over the hot, dry desert air. "_Hey!_"

Mac did not turn his head to give the voice his full attention. Caroline, still smirking devilishly—not to be trusted—held him captive with her strange new demeanor. "What?" he asked of the unknown voice.

"_He's still alive_."

Both Mac and Caroline looked at him this time. He seemed tall, with long hair, bulging muscles, and he could be quite frightening, but Caroline—this new Caroline—was frightened no more.

"So _fix_ it," Mac ordered.

"Wait!" Caroline hollered, holding her hand up, the one with the glass. She noticed the blood then, holding the appendage against the light of the Mustang's headlights, infatuated with the shadows and colors, and just how easily it was to draw blood. She breathed a quick laugh, shaking her hand free of the crimson liquid, and suddenly remembered the task at hand. Looking back at Mac, she said, "Don't kill him."

"So you do like it when that motherfucker beats up on you," Mac decided, shoving her, hard, big hands on her small chest sending her back several steps.

Filled with abrupt rage, Caroline regained the space between them, chest to chest with the man that had wrecked the car she was riding in. No fear. Only a seething ire burning like brimstone within her. "I don't want him _alive_, asshole," she gritted. Mac made no reply. "I ..." She trailed off, a bit unsure of where she was going with this. There seemed to still be a bit of residual compassion lingering around her insides, wrapping around her heart, clenching and freezing the vital organ.

"Fuck this!" Mac burst, throwing his hands up, turning, and walking away from her. "I ain't got time—"

Unable to control her fury any longer, Caroline heaved the piece of glass at him, hitting him squarely in the back of the head. His shoulders bunched as he reached back to cradle the injured spot on his skull before slowly turning back to her. And then he started to run. Caroline's knees bent, assuming a crouched attack position, though she hadn't a clue how she would take this man who was so clearly much bigger than her, stronger than her, but goddamn it, she was not backing down any longer. She'd spent too much time being inferior and afraid; her time had at long last come. But the impact never came. Mac stopped only a few inches before tackling her, seemingly inspecting her, those dazzling eyes now made more brilliant by the moon above glanced over her, leaving no stone unturned.

"You're different," he commented, lips barely moving. It was as if he was attempting conversation with her, but his voice was too hard, words coming out harsh and eliminating the possibility of a rapport. "No fear."

Caroline's brow rose at the realization that it was the easiest thing in the world for him to read her. Just a look at her, and he knew what was happening in her head, or lack thereof. It had taken _her_ longer to discern the change inside her own mind, and even so, he seemed to understand it, whereas she was utterly confused by it. She remembered what had happened before the crash, everything she'd taken from Johnny, all the beatings and abuse, and she remembered how she hadn't been able to fight him, fight for herself because of the unrelenting _fear_. But after the crash, when she should have been terrified about Johnny blaming everything on her and finally dealing her what he believed she deserved, she just … wasn't. Maybe something had shifted in her brain, maybe something had broken, but she was _different_. And Mac knew it. Johnny, on the other hand, did not.

"Don't kill him," she said softly, endearing, eyes sliding from his face to his shoulders, chest, belt buckle, and then they shot up to meet his once more. He was indignant, scoffing at her request by crossing his arms over his chest. Her jaw set tight, determination overcoming her previous indifference to the situation at hand. She took note of her ability to go from one emotion to the next without so much as a transition and she smiled at this new skill. This new _strength_. "Because I want to."

Mac's chin rose, acknowledgment evident, and a small, nearly inconspicuous smile split his thin lips. He pointed at the meaty man still standing beside the Mustang, the one who'd announced Johnny's unfortunate––for him––status and ordered him to remove the injured man from the mangled mess and haul him into the truck. He would send someone back for the wreckage later, he said, as he grabbed her arm and tugged her toward their vehicle, both of them falling in step behind the big guy dragging Caroline's bloodied boyfriend in the same direction. He was slowly coming to, the abuser, as his eyes fluttered, head lolling back and forth, and Caroline's brow arched superiorly and the smile that crossed her mouth was contemptuous. He was now, and would be until she decided to end it, in her shoes, experiencing the fear she'd permanently lived in while with him, and she would revel in this as long as she could. Johnny would live as long as she would _allow_ him to.

Suddenly, Caroline noted the fact that she was skipping. Skipping across the desert, disfigured Ford in the background that was currently smoking, two disheveled, dangerous men––if the intentional _accident_ was anything to go on––carrying the blood-soaked offender to his final resting place. What a sight they were, she mused, laughing out loud, ignoring the looks she gained from Mac and his comrade.

Johnny was tossed into the bed of the truck, too beaten and broken to attempt an escape, and Mac roughly shoved Caroline into the middle of the front seat, squished between the robust driver and broad-shouldered Mac. She had no choice but to spread her legs for the gear shift, and as Long Hair reached for the mechanism, he deliberately grazed her bare, sweaty thigh, and Caroline––_new_ Caroline––flew into a rage. She jumped up onto her knees and threw punch after punch after punch at the transgressor, screaming all the while, calling him every name she'd ever wanted to call Johnny, hitting him with as much force and on the same places as she'd wanted to hit Johnny. No man was going to touch her like that anymore, not unless she wanted them to. _Not anymore_.

"Whoa, hey!" Mac hollered, long, strong arms enveloping her, hauling her off his friend easily. She fell back into his lap, stealing the opportunity to kick the molester for good measure, caring not for the consequences, should there be any. "Fucking _stop it_!" he commanded.

"He doesn't get to touch me!" Caroline shouted, pointing accusingly at the driver.

Mac seized her chin, squeezing as hard as he could to gain her full attention, forcing her to look at him. He pressed their foreheads together, his vivid eyes terrifying, two reminders of just how _not_ in control she still was. She didn't know this man from Adam, but ignoring the freedom he offered, the very freedom he lived by, was unimaginable. So she couldn't beat the hell out of his friend, that was fine, as long as she could take care of the trash in the bed of the truck. Slowly she softened, falling limp in his arms, the redistributed weight crushing her nose against his, her mouth meeting his, and it was then that he claimed her for only the second time that evening. His mouth was so rough and hungry, devouring her lips and tongue and every moan that escaped her throat, maintaining the grip he had on her jaw. But as quick as it had started, it was over, and he was pushing her away, though still holding her near him, or away from Long Hair. They took off, dust, dirt, and gravel flying in their wake, and the broken man in the back rolled around helplessly, banging into the sides, screeching and cursing.

Caroline didn't know where they were going and she didn't care. That independence she'd recently inherited was thrilling, and she'd flicked on the radio, turning the volume up at some unknown pop tune, dancing idiotically despite the confined space. Mac smiled fondly at her, lighting up a cigarette, arm hanging out the opened window beside him. When she noticed what he was doing, she begged for a cigarette of her own, sounding much like a spoiled teenager asking for daddy's credit card. Every vice she wasn't allowed while with Johnny, she now would indulge in to her heart's desire. Her smile morphed into a full on grin when he relented, pulling another cigarette from the pack, lighting it for her, and then placing it between her inviting lips. Avidly, Mac watched her suck on the tobacco, cheeks hollowing out, lips full and wrapped around the filter, long fingers separated and waiting for the hit to be complete. She watched him as he watched her, both sets of eyes locked in a raging war of dominance, though Caroline was fairly certain she would not win. To put it simply, she enjoyed being allowed to play.

The desert was utterly black, the moon slowly losing its glow behind thunderous clouds, but there was no sense of urgency. Caroline speculated over how often Mac and his cronies did something like this; plucking people from their travels amongst the burning mountains of Utah, doing with them what they pleased, disposing of them, none of whom would ever be heard from again. This theory lit a long since burned out flame within Caroline, as she had no idea how dangerous these men could be, what they were capable of, and whether or not they would turn their attentions to her, making her one of the missing. Ultimately, however, none of this mattered. The new Caroline loved the precariousness, treasured the unknown, but mostly … she craved the man named Mac.

The trio smoked in silence. Johnny's moans were becoming louder by the minute, and no one seemed too concerned with being covert. Why should they? This was as middle-of-nowhere as one could get. It began to rain. Softly, at first, just a sprinkling, but it quickly turned into a downpour, and Caroline turned completely around in her seat, kicking the dashboard as she went, and she folded her arms on the head rest, chin resting there, and watched delightedly as Johnny writhed and sobbed, trying in vain to shield his face from the rain. Caroline smiled. Caroline was happy. She took one last drag from the cigarette between her fingers before sliding the back window open and flicking the burning object at her ex-boyfriend.

"Caroline!" Johnny screamed, hysterically shoving the wasted cigarette away from him as if he would catch on fire if it touched him. Caroline couldn't help the giggle that escaped her lips and she hid the bottom half of her face behind her arms so he wouldn't see. "Get me out of here, you stupid bitch!"

The giddiness was gone instantly, her lips plummeting to an irate scowl, brows arching. "It's over, you know?" she remarked casually, in spite of the deathly expression on her face. "Us. You and me." It was as if the realization of their separation had come crashing down upon her suddenly and she was awestruck by it all.

"_Cunt!_" Johnny snapped, looking straight into her eyes while clutching at the various wounds all over his body. "Get me _out of here!_"

Caroline felt the smile split her lips. "We'll get you out," she promised ominously.

The truck slid to a halt outside of what appeared to be a dark cave, but with the rain and the hiding moon, Caroline had no idea where they'd ended up. She followed Mac's order to get out, and the weather gave her pause. The rain was warm, coupled with the earthy scent of wet dust and dirt, sent her spirit flying. Her feet carried her away from the truck and her arms extended straight out to her sides, and then she began to twirl. It didn't take long for her hair to become soaked through, the blonde probably appearing brown, and she pushed it off her face with both hands, eyes closed, the action taking place in slow motion as she enjoyed this cleansing, this sort of baptism into a brave new world.

"Hey," Mac hollered.

Caroline's eyes opened and she saw Mac standing beside the truck. He had Johnny in an unrelenting headlock, the illumination of the truck's headlights painted over one side of his face and the flexed bicep he used to hold his hostage, leaving the other side dark and indiscernible. There was that thirst again for the risk he so clearly presented, for the peril she faced once she inevitably followed them into the haunting cave. Mac had the same yearning in his eyes for her, drinking her in as she stood there drenched, clothes becoming transparent and clinging to every curve, hands on her face, hair a mess. Even if she had the sudden inclination to run, Mac wasn't letting her get away.

"Let's go," he said.

Caroline's breath left her lungs and her arms fell against her hips, pure submission overwhelming her.

"Okay."


End file.
